


Scars (Make Us Who We Are)

by Sherry_CS



Category: Finder no Hyouteki | Finder Series
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-19
Updated: 2020-03-19
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:07:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23209006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sherry_CS/pseuds/Sherry_CS
Summary: Until the real Hunger comes along, may our Scars unite Us. Liu. Fei. Long.
Relationships: Mikhail Arbatov/Liu Fei Long
Comments: 4
Kudos: 21





	Scars (Make Us Who We Are)

He would think of him in the most unlikely hours.

Out. Late at night. Partying. Sweat and cash and drug and semen and alcohol in the air. Dancing. Gyrating. Acting like he didn’t care. KNOWING that he didn’t care. And all of a sudden he would think of him. He would think of those cold despising eyes, that regal posture that spoke of death, knowing it would be exactly that — death — that the man would be thinking of if he were here, squinting at him, judging him, devising, as he himself would sometimes devise, the myriad scenarios of his eventual, no-doubt-violent, death. (The mere thought of that beautiful dangerous man casting him as much as a glance rendered him cold with thrill.)

Out. Breeze in his hair. Racing at 140 mph in a very wrong lane. Screaming girl by his side. Car horns. Flashlights. Sirens. Memories.

In. Fucking said girl. In a metallic red, very mirrory, slightly creepy hotel room that didn’t need to be as spacious as it was, since he’d be checking out as soon as he finished here. He made sweet violent love to the girl, grabbing her hair, making her back arch at an impossible angle, infusing into her for this short split of time and space where they both tempted Fate what he knew, what he learnt first-hand, about the Race with Death.

He tried not to think of him then. He knew that if he did, he might just go crazy.

(Ended up staying with the girl till dawn. Watched a movie together. This frailty of his, not being able to look at women with anything short of awe. Shared a smoke before he rose to leave. ‘I don’t even know your name...’ heard her mumble.)

He caught his mind wandering off at an important meeting, remembering a slight smile of his obsession’s at a similar convention, the kind that was so light and so elusive and so real at the same time (the scent of morning glories carried on the spring breeze) that you couldn’t look away once you were touched by its grace. That time, Feilong had caught him staring and in a fluid motion that only Devil himself could’ve invented, licked his upper lip and put on a pair of glasses, quite dismissively, quite innocently, ostensibly to read a document offered. But Mikhail couldn’t miss that passing feral glee in the man’s eyes. He was playing with him and no mistake, fanning that fire cuz he knew he could stomp it out any minute he chose. Mikhail bore holes into the man with his intense glare, forcing the man to look back at him briefly. 'If you wanted to embarrass me by giving me a hard-on then congratulations, you just did, but oh my teasy baby don’t you know, it’s going to end sooooo bad for you.’ He didn’t have to say any of that aloud as his eyes said so much more, so much worse.

It went without saying that he always won.

When he finally had him, it was all for the wrong reasons. His skin was smooth and hot and fragrant and steely and petal-soft all at the same time, as expected. His hair tumbled all over the pillows, as expected. His muscles tensed and twisted and popped (above, under, against and around), as expected. He flushed easily, not expected. His voice, when it did manage to escape his clenched teeth and sealed lips, was sickeningly sweet like crystalized honey (beseeching protesting condemning or just plainly, blissfully, helpless.) Not expected. His eyes his eyes his eyes. His lashes his lashes his lashes. His tears his tears his tears. (His butt his butt his butt.) His yes’s. His no’s. His threats his concessions his pleasure. His pleasure. The man was velvet dynamite and Mikhail wouldn’t bat an eyelid before bombing himself to smithereens because in loving him, he became Immortal.

Mikhail woke up to him leaving. “Going already?” He asked. “We’re done here, aren’t we?” Feilong answered with his usual dismissive chill, barely turning around. Mikhail popped himself up and winked, half out of sheer muscle memory. “So cold.”

It took every ounce of his rationality (and a small chunk of his pride) not to grab him back to bed.

Later, Mikhail looked at himself in the mirror. Bruises, scratches and bites added to his rough battle-worn body. Sore muscles. Fucked-out satisfaction. (He did work him hard, didn’t he?) He turned around and examined his near-two-decade-old scars. Feilong barely took any interest in them. He didn’t seem to be repulsed by them either.

Little did he know that in no more than a few hours he would be woken from his sleep with a call telling him that Feilong’s car had a crash in the back alley and it seemed to them — ‘now, don’t panic now Mikhail’ — that Baishe’s men found only Yoh in the car, later. Less than an hour after that he would be united with his men in their usual meeting spot, a local low-scale 24-h poker place, and learn to his quiet anger that for once, his enemy was one step ahead of him.

Long long time ago there was a golden boy with an iridescent smile, fresh like splashes off a summer streak, blindingly bright, immune to the world’s darker webs. It took one summer to take that golden boy forever away, to embed that innocent body with a maze of bloody scars. It also took one summer to make a man, a gangster, out of him. Out of the ashes rose an archangel with black wings, and those who sought it would learn his Fury.

Mikhail Arbatov was a man who despised self-control, except when he knew he needed it.

On a night like this, even his scars itched to kill.

And on a night like this, he realized his Love was fiercer than he thought.

He sought for him in the most unlikely places. In the rain, in the sun, in Reflection, in Incandescence. In the glorified and in the fallen, in the soiled and in the broken. He was his End and his Beginning.

Until the real Hunger comes along, may our Scars unite Us.

Liu. Fei. Long.

**Author's Note:**

> Title source: Adam Lambert’s Outlaws of Love.


End file.
